Specialist of the Impossible
by LunaStorm
Summary: Harry Potter was 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with himself. That was likely why he didn't turn down that odd proposal... Arc One: All in all, the fact that Death had managed to scatter around yet more prized possessions wasn't that big of a surprise.
1. How It All Began

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**Prologue **

_**Why it all began**_

o

Harry Potter was 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with himself.

o

Straight after the war he'd been inducted into the Auror Corps.

Back then, he'd been ecstatic and euphoric. What he'd believed for years to be his dream was coming true, and with minimal effort on his part: they hadn't even demanded that he take his N.E.W.T.s (though he supposed offing a Dark Lord could count as sufficient extra credit).

In hindsight, he could now admit that the highly irregular enrolling had been a very convenient way to, a) boost the Ministry's image by associating it with everybody's beloved hero (and didn't that gall, that he'd ended up a poster-boy after all?) and b) keep him under control, by indoctrinating him on his 'duty towards the Ministry' and by regulating what he learned and how (wouldn't do to let him become the next Voldemort, or worse, the next Dumbledore).

He was honest enough not to blame the Ministry however.

They were politicians, and as politicians they thought: which, despite everything, wasn't necessary a bad thing. After all, they hadn't forced him or even pressured him. They had given him exactly what he wanted.

Back then, he'd been eager to become an Auror, full of enthusiasm for the training and his future career. All they'd done was smooth things over so that it would be easy for him to follow the path he'd chosen and that was so opportunely suitable.

o

The problem was that it had taken him less than six months to realize that it wasn't what he wanted after all.

He _didn't_ like being an Auror.

It had nothing to do with the training being exhausting, nor with him being tired of fighting. Far from it actually: the varied, demanding, taxing, nerve-wrecking, relentless training regime that drained every Trainee was, to Harry, amazingly interesting and it filled him with a joy for learning that he'd never felt before, challenging his mind, his magic and his body in truly satisfying ways; while the few mock-battles he got involved with charged him with exhilarating adrenaline and made his blood sing with passion.

No, the reason he was second-guessing himself was the rigid hierarchy and mindless discipline the job required.

He wasn't used to _obeying orders_.

He was used to follow only his own lead; to bend and break the rules as he saw fit; to make up his own mind about things without trusting the 'official version'; to put into action solutions he and his friends came up with without seeking _permission_, much less from paper-pushers.

No, blindly following directives from people he often didn't trust or even respect and carrying out assignments he didn't even know the reasons for was _not_ for him.

o

He tried to stick at it, because he didn't want to let go of his dream, and because he felt a bit childish at saying he 'didn't want to follow the rules'. He felt like he could hear Snape's caustic voice in his head: _Potter __has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here – don't go blaming others for Potter's determination to break rules – arrogant, spoilt…_

He didn't want to admit Snape might have been right!

So he grit his teeth and soldiered on, and managed to make it all the way through his first year as Trainee before breaking down and telling everything to his two best friends.

Ron had been shocked, hurt, offended and appalled (_Don't you want to be my partner? Mate, I thought this was what you wanted! That we were in this together!_); Hermione had been sympathetic but _not_ understanding (_Honestly, Harry, I know it's hard, but it's time you grew up…_)

Between the two of them, they'd talked him into facing his second year of Auror training (though 'cajoling' would be a better description, or possibly 'guilt-tripping').

It had been a mistake.

Harry had grown more and more miserable, his short temper even shorter, his bad moods legendary; anger or brooding his default states of mind.

Not even the ever demanding training could distract him.

At the end of the year, without saying anything to Ron or Hermione, he left the Auror Corps for good and then locked himself inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place in order to avoid dealing with everybody's disappointment.

o

Three weeks later, George Weasley had at last managed to break into the grim house and dragged him out into the world again.

George had taken him on a Weasley Whirlwind Week, as he called it, which consisted in taking his mind off things by means of too much alcohol, too loud music and a lot of dancing (along with a bit of heavy snogging with random partners, though Harry didn't go any further because of Ginny) in an impressive number of muggle clubs.

It had rather effectively distracted Harry from his grumpy mood.

Then George had dropped him off at the Burrow, to be scolded and fussed over, reproached and reassured by his extended adoptive family (even 'Grandma' Andromeda had come for this).

And while there _had_ been disappointment, they had quickly swallowed it and proclaimed that he had every right to be tired of violence and to desire a quieter life. Harry hadn't bothered correcting their assumptions. They felt more justifiable than the truth.

Then everybody had joined a brainstorming session aimed at determining 'what Harry should do now'.

o

He hadn't objected too much to the suggestion of becoming a professional Quidditch player. Why should he have?

He'd received invitations from every team in the League (except the Holyhead Harpies, for obvious reasons) and besides, he had once admitted unselfconsciously that Quidditch was all he was good at. It was the perfect solution, wasn't it?

And the moment he'd found himself on a broom again, after two years of not having the time for it, he was utterly convinced that nothing in the world could ever suit him better.

Flying was as natural to him as breathing – and almost as necessary.

Yes… Quidditch was the fulfilment of his every dream…

Or so he thought.

Too bad that the actual flying time was _nothing_ when compared to the amount of hours _wasted_ on 'public relations' – giving interviews, releasing statements, signing autographs, endorsing products on command, going to 'the right parties'… in short, everything Harry disgustedly gathered under the heading 'catering to fans'.

He brought the Chudley Cannons to their first victory since 1892 (an endeavour judged 'most impressive' by _Seeker Weekly_) and joined the British National Team for the European Cup, where he had the chance to challenge none other than Victor Krum in what several magazines declared 'the most breath-taking and foolhardy seeker-to-seeker race since the days of 'Dangerous Dai' Llewellyn'.

But he hated it.

Every minute of it, every silly gushing groopie going wild for an autograph, every greedy reporter gleefully digging into his private life and past, every absurd fan stalking him outside his door, every idiotic nickname and mock-title he was given, every stupid line the press agents forced him to feed the media…

If he'd thought his fame as the Boy-Who-Lived was bad… this, this was a hundred times worse!

o

His Quidditch days also marked the beginning of the end for his relationship with Ginny.

A successful Chaser herself, already slated to become the next Captain of the Holyhead Harpies as soon as the celebrated Gwenog Jones retired, Ginny found true delight in regularly appearing in public – and on the covers of several magazines – looking good on Harry's arm.

She laughed at his grumblings about being unable to keep the fans at bay and insisted on reading to him every line _Quidditch Monthly_, _The Witchcraft Tribune_ and _Witches Chic _printed on her and Harry, despite his reiterated protests that he didn't _want_ to know.

She didn't seem at all fazed by the blinding sea of flashbulbs they were met with on even the simplest stroll and she clearly enjoyed the ocean of voices calling their names outside the stadiums.

Whenever Harry tried to make her understand just _how much_ he hated the circus his life had become, she brushed him off as ridiculous or actually got offended. She seemed to expect him to simply go through life hand in hand with her, oblivious to the glare of the flash bulbs and the shrieks of the crowd that drove him mad.

After the sixth time she'd playfully posed for a moronic freelancer who was holding his camera up and shooting off several rounds even as Harry was flinging him from the premises, Harry told her it was over.

She'd been incredulous and offended, the tabloids had had a field day with it, Molly had been inconsolable and over two thousand offers of anything from marriage to kinky sex had come from witches all over Europe, in letters complete with suggestive photographs.

All in all, Harry had been miserable.

o

At last, though, the outcry about his leaving the Quidditch scene – which bordered on hysteria, with crying fans begging him to reconsider and a widespread movement of orange-clad idiots with scars tattooed on their foreheads petitioning for his return – was somewhat contained when _Rumours!_ first published (quickly followed by every other tabloid) the theory that he was depressed over the break-up with Ginny.

He was rather relieved that they stopped hounding him then, even if the pity was annoying; Ginny however was less than pleased to find herself the target of Howlers and Hex-letters from deranged fans blaming her (especially after _Witch Weekly_ insinuated her alleged infidelity as cause of the fallout, despite Harry's indignant denials).

To get away from everything, Harry seized the weirdest offer he'd had so far in his life: a contract for a series of exhibitions of stunt flying.

The manager, Meander Bancroft, organized the exhibitions to promote new brooms and had told Harry, quite frankly, that he'd receive more money than he had from the Cannons, as long as he flew more dangerous manoeuvres and sold more brooms. If Harry's popularity dropped, they would adjust his Galleons accordingly.

Harry felt excitement running through his veins at the thought of all the dangerous moves he would have the occasion to fly – nay, he would _be paid _to fly.

The sheer joy that he could find in the freedom of flying stunts, no pressure to find the Snitch, no need to watch out for Bludgers and fouls, was amazing.

He'd always loved flying just for flying.

The element of danger in pulling off difficult stunts was enticing, too.

After all, there was a reason why he'd earned the 'Dangerous Dai' Commemorative Medal – which was given every year to the player who took the most risks on the pitch – three times in a row.

So for a while, Harry toured Europe, showing off his flying tricks. For a while, he delighted in the gasps he elicited, in the excited shouts for his many close calls, in the admiring and amazed eyes that stayed riveted on him as he rolled and dived, spiralled and soared, somersaulted head over handle and bristles over heels, hanged upside-down and spun sharply, plunged falcon-like and rose again in twisting spirals…

The crowd went wild every time he revealed a new routine but it never bothered him: he tuned them out the way he'd once done when playing Quidditch, easily maintaining a surface awareness in case someone else flew near him or he ran into the hoops of the Pitch or the ground, but keeping his focus on the motion of his body and the broom.

He loved it.

He loved how he could hear both magic and wind straining as they flowed through the bristles when he threw himself into a series of sideways rolls or rose to his feet and balanced on the broom's handle, sending the spectators into raptures.

He loved how his mind almost instinctively made sense of the speed of the wind, the soreness of his limbs from his earlier tricks, the momentum of the broom, and a dozen other factors, bringing him to the point where he knew, as he had always known where the Snitch was going to be, that he could perform the trick he wanted.

He loved how the shouts of panic inevitably became yells of laughter and amazement and awe, once the public realized what crazy stunt they had been privileged enough to witness.

He loved it immensely, for all of six months.

Then he began to realize that there weren't really all that many manoeuvres he could fit into a routine, that the manager showing off his skills and his name to sell brooms was getting tiresome, that the fans were starting to stalk him _again_ and this time they were even crazier than his earlier groupies.

And when Bancroft organized a tour of the United States, he realized he didn't want to go.

He'd grown used to travelling around Europe while moving from stadium to stadium with his teams, but the idea of finally leaving the continent he was born on just to be paraded around in pre-arranged circus shows suddenly revolted him.

He wanted to travel, he knew that much. He didn't want it to be on someone else's schedule.

o

Unfortunately, the first few tourist trips he made on his own after leaving Bancroft – to Australia, to Morocco and to Brazil, just because – were disappointing.

Staying with a group that was led around like a bunch of sheep and told to marvel at this and admire that and enjoy pre-arranged activities at pre-determined times and taste exactly the array of typical cuisine that was prepared for them, kind of took all the fun out of travelling.

No, he definitely didn't like obeying rules.

He wanted to go on an _adventure_, finding things, discovering places, meeting people…

Easier said than done, because without a tour operator and without a specific purpose, he found himself pretty much stranded the first time he tried India. It had taken him longer than was reasonable to figure out how to get to the Taj Mahal, he'd been robbed _twice_ in less than three days and he had been plagued by unexpected fares, hygiene problems and the insistent, unpleasant sensation that the locals were laughing at him behind his back, or worse, pitying him for his evident stupidity. He could only thank his foresight in going as a muggle, because he did not dare imagine what the added complication of his fame might have meant.

o

On top of that, there was the harping Hermione was doing about his _wasting his life_. She still thought that he'd been irresponsible in leaving a serious career in the Auror corps to do 'nothing productive' instead. She continually nagged him to lend his support to her political career, which albeit amazing for one so young, was severely impaired by her blood status, despite the _two_ wars that had been fought to stop this kind of discrimination.

Well, he gave in of course, because Hermione was a force to be reckoned with and simply not liking the political scene didn't seem to be a good enough reason to avoid it for her. However, after two major gaffes at Ministry functions, predictably blown out of proportions by the gleeful tabloids, she changed her mind on his involvement.

After that, Harry stuck to plastering a smile as bright and as empty as a lamp bulb on his face and steadfastly declare Hermione's latest crusade of extreme importance. It worked surprisingly well, though it didn't say much good about their world.

o

He ended up spending the majority of his time with Teddy Lupin, who was now six years old and had his Godfather wrapped around his little finger thanks to his infallible combo: an earnest desire of having his own way, a cute mischievous smile, and a great deal of noise.

He also let himself be caught in bouts of enthusiasm for the most diverse things, from Arithmancy, to ceramics, to Owl breeding, to Mayan history. Generally, his passion for a certain topic would flare consumingly for anywhere between two and six weeks, before he got tired or bored or his attention was caught by something else.

He would have been the first to admit, however, that nothing he did truly satisfied him.

o

So there he was, 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with his life.

Which is why he couldn't find it in himself to turn down the intriguing invitation…

* * *

_Acknowledgements:_

_The idea of the flying stunts exhibitions is from 'Learning Life Over' by Meander Later (and the manager's name is a homage to this surprising author): the story is a unpredictably good Harry/Draco with an unexpected but wonderfully developed basic idea. If you want something different, long and well written this is worth a read._

_Other ideas and snippets are inspired by jennavere's hilarious 'Quidditch Wife' (and its sequel)._

_Quidditch data come, of course, from 'Quidditch Through the Ages'._


	2. A Mercurial Old Geezer

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

******Arc I – Death's Chess Set**

o

**Chapter One  
**

_**A Mercurial Old Geezer**_

o

The house was large, beautiful, imposing, all white pillars and rows of delicate windows, framed by the dark green of majestic trees.

A second glance, however, revealed the degraded state of the paint, the dirt and humidity in the corners, the all-too numerous stains and obscured glasses and even a broken window two stories up.

It was clear that there had once been real money behind the place, but just as clear that whoever owned it now had lost it, or at the very least, had lost the will to care for the manor.

Harry walked briskly along the irregularly distributed, grass-spotted gravel and reached for the bell rope near the impressive but faded entrance doors, all the while wondering about the man he was supposed to meet.

Alivjo Perrison.

Not much was to be known about him: he was neither famous nor infamous in any way Harry had managed to determine. About all he'd been able to dig up was that he'd won a prize for the translation of a peculiar Runic text some forty years previous. After that, he seemed to have... disappeared. There wasn't even a record of a job or an activity he might have done in the last decades. No legal marriage or evidence of living relations. No criminal record. No published papers or whatnot... Nothing.

He had absolutely no way to guess what the odd letter he'd received from the man, requesting a meeting, might be about.

A frayed House-elf that Harry could only describe as 'dusty' welcomed him and led him to a small, dimly lit sitting room that looked like it had been hurriedly cleaned, in preparation for his visit, for the first time in years.

He only had a moment to take in the old, green-striped upholstery of a couch and matching armchairs crammed around a dark wooden tea-table and glance at the dark wooden heavy chest and cupboard lining the walls opposite to the wide, obstructed window in front of him; then his host shot out of the nearest armchair and bounded up to him.

"Mr Potter! What an honour, sir, what a pleasure! Come on, come in!" He gestured wildly to the other armchair. "Tea? Or maybe something a little stronger?" he chuckled conspiratorially.

Harry stared at him in shock.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but this... wasn't it!

Alivjo Perrimore looked old, grey and frail. He was also _never_ still.

"I can barely believe that you're here! Here, in my own sitting room! This is so exciting!"

Harry's eyes grew cold and stormy. This better not be some crazy fan! The letter he'd received didn't indicate anything of the sort... but then again, you never knew with fans.

If this damned old codger had made him come all the way to Northamptonshire just to gawk at his scar... or worse, he grimaced, for an autograph!...

"Mr Perrimore, whatever you might have read about me in the papers, I assure you it is wildly exaggerated. My Quidditch skills aren't that great..."

"Is that so?" asked his host, blinking his grey eyes owlishly with the air of someone who's being polite but underneath, is really rather indifferent: he looked genuinely perplexed by Harry's comment.

Nevertheless, Harry went on: "...And as for Voldemort, I had a lot of help..."

"Oh, that!" Perrimore waved him off impatiently. "Of course, of course, well done. Someone had to do it I suppose, and better you than me, says I," he said dismissively.

Harry gaped.

In his entire life, well at least since he entered the wizarding world, he'd never met anyone who would dismiss his role in the war so nonchalantly.

He was, unexpectedly, a bit miffed; and a lot intrigued.

If the man wasn't interested in his victory over the Dark Lord, and clearly wasn't a Quidditch fanatic either, then what did he want with Harry?

"It is your talent that fascinates me! So astonishing! So wondrous!" the old bloke was waxing lyrical, and Harry revised his assessment.

His only talent was flying: maybe the man was secretly obsessed with Quidditch after all. Or maybe he'd lived vicariously through Harry's stunt routines. Who knew?

"Mr Perrimore..." he tried to say, a bit uncertain on how to deal with the elderly yet energetic man.

"Why, to find such a fabled place at such a young age!" the other was going on, practically in raptures.

Huh?

Harry shut up, staring blankly. What was the bloke on about? The entire situation was as clear as mud! Just what had a fabled place got to do with flying?

"Tell me, Mr Potter... is it true... is it true that you saw, even _touched_, the mythical Philosopher's Stone?" the elderly man was leaning forward where he sat, stars in his eyes, almost bouncing on the armchair, as giddy as a little schoolboy.

Completely baffled, Harry murmured an affirmative. Philosopher's Stone? The one from back in his first year at Hogwarts?

The other clapped his hands with glee. "Wonderful! Splendid!"

What the hell?!

"And the Mirror of Erised? Huh? Was that true as well?"

Harry nodded dumbly.

"Gryffindor's Sword? Huh? Huh? The Resurrection Stone?!"

Too gob-smacked to think straight, Harry merely nodded again.

"Marvellous!" the old man jumped on his seat, rubbing his hands with glee. "Splendid! You clearly have such a talent for this! And experience, too. It's wonderful! Perfect! You're hired!"

Harry just stared at the mercurial old geezer, stunned beyond words by the weird turn of events.

"Hired for what?!" he finally managed to ask.

The old bloke looked unnervingly like a cat about to jump the mouse as he said, very clearly: "Why, to retrieve Death's Chess Set, of course."

o

Harry went home in a daze that day.

Was the man insane? Yes. Yes, he must be. He wasn't all bad, of course, but he wasn't all there either.

He mechanically put the ruby-coloured binder the man had given him, full of information on the task he'd somehow been roped into, on the kitchen table and sank on a chair, still trying to digest everything that he had been told that afternoon.

Death… had a Chess Set.

Well, all right. If… it?... could have a Cloak, then why not a Chess Set? He of all people should know that Impossible is Nothing. Especially when Magic is involved. And he certainly wasn't surprised to hear that Death had scattered _yet more_ prized possessions around.

He vaguely wondered who was the wizard who'd created the Chess Set and just what, exactly, it did. Then again, it was probably easier to keep track of the fairy tale – anthropomorphic personification and all – rather than try and pry true information from some cobble-webbed family grimoire…

He closed his eyes, going over what the enthusiastic old fellow had told him: "Surely you've heard of all the tales about challenging Death to a game of chess, thus forestalling one's demise as long as the game continues? Or playing for the life of a loved one? Why, the idea is older than feudalism, you know! There are examples dating back to myths of the 5th century BC… written accounts from the times of Chaucer… and you can see Death play chess on numerous ancient paintings, especially in the Scandinavian area... there is this church in Sweden where a fresco clearly depicts an Abbot challenging Death… and that is also the first, unequivocal proof of the existence of a peculiar Chess Set for these vitally important matches."

Here Perrison had nodded several times, emphasizing his words. "Yes, yes. It makes sense, you see. If you could win a life with just about any chess game, why, everybody would start learning how to play from the earliest infancy! Nobody would die anymore at all! No, no. Obviously there is a bit more, quite a bit more about it. Specifically, this!"

He'd triumphantly showed Harry a reproduction of the already mentioned fresco. It showed a man in medieval clothes next to a rather disquieting yellowish skeleton grinning and moving a piece on a chessboard.

Harry had nodded dumbly, hoping he wouldn't be called to comment.

"And this!" had gone on the old man, turning a page to show another reproduction, this time of a colourful church window portraying a dark-skinned armoured knight and another grinning skeleton in front of a chessboard. "And this!" had crowed the old geezer, proudly displaying more reproductions: a black and white print of a springy skeleton playing chess with a king in glitzy garments among a crowd of gawking spectators, an oil portrait of an elegant lady sitting across a chessboard from a chalk-white skeleton with a scythe…

"Do you see it? Do you? Do you?" pressed his host. "That is the answer! The proof!"

And Harry, though rather reluctantly, admitted that he did see it. The various chess pieces depicted in those representations were all astoundingly alike… and peculiarly unlike any chess set he'd ever seen, be it for real or in pictures.

What really convinced Harry was that they weren't _overtly_ dissimilar: there was nothing glaringly different about them. Yet they had an indefinable air of… _otherness_. One that he knew better than he would have liked: one that was peculiar to highly magical objects – even when described or represented by Muggles who shouldn't have been able to sense their uniqueness.

"I devoted my whole life to the search for these chess pieces, Mr. Potter… my whole life," had said Mr. Perrison with measured solemnity. His eyes were shining with intense emotion. "I studied… researched… gathered information like no other had done before! Now I don't have much time left… I am old, and illness is slowly but surely claiming me… please, Mr. Potter!" He'd grabbed his arm with surprising strength, looking at Harry as if he was his last hope on Earth. "You _must_ see… what a unique challenge this is… a chance without parallel… I beg you: help me! Join me in this Quest!"

And Harry didn't know if it was the moving enthusiasm of the energetic old man, or the soft lure of a mystery reminding him of more interesting times, or his own boredom casting an enticing light on the admittedly absurd proposition…

…but when Alivjo Perrison asked: "Will you do it?", clear grey eyes pleading, frail voice full of hope and childish glee…

…he said yes.


	3. Many Scattered Pieces

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

******Arc I – Death's Chess Set**

o

**Chapter Two  
**

_**Many Scattered Pieces  
**_

o

Harry had to hand it to the Mercurial Old Geezer: the man was thorough.

Alivjo Perrison had gathered every parchment, book, journal excerpt and newspaper article even remotely connected with the chess pieces he was after, making copies when he couldn't keep the original. He'd even put them all in a binder, neatly displayed and clearly labelled by date and country. Hermione would love this bloke.

Of course, only about half of the writings were in English. Typical.

Harry wasted half an hour on bemoaning this fact, before being struck by a brilliant idea, and floo-calling Hermione to ask about translation charms. The wizarding world had spells for everything, surely there was one that would allow him to read the blooming texts?

Alas, no such luck.

Sure, translation charms existed, but as it turned out, in order to cast one, you had to know both languages – the one you wanted to translate and the one you wanted to translate it to. And that was without even mentioning that translating spoken or written language required different sets of spells.

As it were, entire agencies thrived on providing this service – you go there, pay, and a witch or wizard who is fluent in both languages you're interested in casts the charm on you, with durability spanning from two hours to fifteen days, in direct proportion to the amount of Galleons you are willing to part with.

Naturally, Hermione's suggestion was to find a language course: the muggle world, she pointed out, offered many such lessons, especially in London, for just about every language under the sun.

Harry's solution, on the other hand, was to ask for a list of the translation agencies and owl them about the cost of having a few things translated.

Once he had overcome the 'minor' obstacle, he set himself to the monumental task of reading everything very carefully and compiling a summarized list of the major points.

The Rooks, it seemed, had remained in the hands of their current owners' families for centuries. It looked like he would have to go to Italy…

The King had been bought by an eccentric billionaire – Perrison had tracked down the papers – but unfortunately the man seemed to have moved to Patagonia for his retirement. Harry had to locate an atlas and look up where on Earth Patagonia might be just to get an idea of how far the man was supposed to be. He wasn't happy to find out the term 'antipodes' worked well to describe the distance.

One Bishop was supposedly in Normandie, France, where Anna of Rohan, current Comtesse de Fougéres, had – hopefully – inherited it from her great-grandfather, who was the confirmed founder and keeper of the piece, retrieved during a French archaeological expedition in centre Italy under Napoleon's rule.

The other Bishop, along with the last missing pawn, could be tracked to Hungaria, specifically to a Mr. Hmrak, art collector, who had for certain acquired the two pieces just five years prior; unfortunately, after leaving notice at his place of work that he was taking a holiday to Praha, he'd never come back – and the pieces had disappeared with him. Of course.

Well, he doubted any of the current owners would just give up their pieces without battling an eye, but he might as well give it a try… if nothing else, getting in touch with them would be a start.

He started mentally composing his letters.

o

"I can't believe you're doing something so foolish!" was Hermione's comment some days later.

She and Ron had joined him in his bedroom, where he was steadily packing. Clothes and items were strewn almost everywhere in the room, like the after-effects of a whirlwind tornado that seemed to be centred on the open suitcase triumphantly sitting at the bottom of his bed, a dark sleeve of fabric dangling over one side.

Hermione was standing, rigid with disapprobation, an aged but still wrathfully glaring Crookshanks held against her bosom like a shield against Harry's stupidity.

"You've been nagging me forever to start doing something with my life," protested Harry weakly, balancing two Auror-standard Potions carriers to try and judge which weighted less.

"Something productive! Something… something sensible, Harry, something responsible. You have so many good qualities, and-"

"Hermione, _please_," he cut her off, rolling his eyes.

"When I said you should get out and do something, throwing yourself into a harebrained adventure, on your own I might add, is not what I had in mind!"

She'd been going on like this from the moment he'd told them of his meeting with Alivjo Perrison – and of his decision of accepting the odd 'job' he'd been offered.

"So where're you going first, mate?" asked Ron from where he was lazily lounging on Harry's bed. Hermione started instantly berating him ("Ron! How can you encourage him…!") but he ignored her rant with practised ease.

"Well," said Harry, trying to refold his latest Weasley sweater so it would fit in the suitcase, "that French Countess is absolutely thrilled that a 'researcher' wants to have a look at her family's castle, but unfortunately she's getting married in two weeks, so this isn't a good time. She'll be delighted to have me as a guest once the honeymoon is over, though – or at least, that's what her letter says."

"Good luck to the poor bugger, whoever it is," commented Ron idly.

"Ron! You prat!" hissed Hermione, now dividing with equity her reproachful glares between her two friends.

The redhead held up his hand in a placating gesture, amusement shining in his eyes.

Harry went on: "And since the billionaire who moved to Patagonia has virtually dropped off the face of the world during an expedition to the Tierra del Fuego..."

He shot Hermione a smug look, inordinately proud that he knew the right name of the Merlin-forsaken place.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, her lips almost slipping in a small smile despite the worry apparent on her face.

"And since I've heard nothing sensible from that Hungarian…" continued Harry.

"What do you mean?" asked Ron sharply, propping himself up on an elbow with a frown.

Harry shrugged, turning to look for the next item to pack: "It's pretty much confirmed that two pieces were acquired by this Hmrak bloke who is, it seems, an art collector. Apparently he bragged about them to all of his colleagues when he bought them, some five years ago. Then about two months ago he went to Praha on holiday – something about seeing some precious ceramic piece at an exhibition there – and… nothing."

He threw a bag of bath stuff into the suitcase rather carelessly.

"Nothing?" repeated Ron incredulously.

Harry dropped to his knees to look for a pair of trainers under his bed and his voice came out rather muffled as he rummaged: "He disappeared. Left said at his hotel that he was going to the police station and then… puff. Never came back, never called… nothing."

He came up again, triumphantly holding one shoe: "Perrison found the report he made to the muggle police there – apparently he told the hotel staff the truth about his intentions – and it is full of what the agent who heard him out classified as 'utter nonsense': like being robbed by 'man-beasts as savage as wolves'. We know better than to dismiss his claims, but it's not much use anyway, because of course, the Muggles didn't believe a word Hmrak said…"

"I'm not surprised," commented Hermione with a sniff.

Harry shot her an annoyed look: "Really, Hermione, there's no need to be like that… Muggles are this oblivious because we work bloody well hard to keep them that way!"

Hermione glared at him: "That's not what I meant! I'm not surprised that this Mr. Hmrak was attacked by werewolves, is all. Praha is in the territory of the biggest and most structured lycanthropic pack in Europe, after all."

"Really?" asked Harry in total astonishment.

"Certainly!" exclaimed Hermione, clearly surprised that he didn't already know. "Not only do they number in the hundreds, they're also pretty well organized and have fought tooth and claw – literally, at times – to be ruled by their own Lore rather than by common law. It was a big uproar, the matter was heatedly debated for ages and there were a number of terrorist attacks both against the werewolves and by them… There's a whole chapter on the matter in Martin Causius' _A Contemporary History of Eastern Europe… _ oh, but, for pity's sake! _Don't you two ever read?"_

Harry and Ron glanced at each other sheepishly, trying hard to contain their mirth. "Well, anyway, I'm starting with Bologna," hurriedly concluded Harry, diving back under the bed for the second shoe.

"Italy, huh?" commented Ron, winking at Harry. "Cool. I've heard the birds there are beautiful and friendly, if you get what I mean!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ronald!" cried Hermione exasperated, while Harry laughed some more.

Hermione turned to him with a frown, not saying anything, but clearly disapproving.

Harry dropped the pair of trainers atop a precarious pile of socks inside the suitcase and sighed: "Hermione…"

"I just don't want you to get hurt!" she burst out suddenly. "You don't know what all you're getting yourself into and- and…"

In two steps, Harry was by her side and engulfing her in a huge hug, not bothered by Crookshanks' ferocious hiss as he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor: "I'll be careful, Hermione. I promise."

She sniffed and hugged him back "You'll better!"

She squeezed him tightly and then let go of him, her eyes a little puffy: "You keep in touch, you hear? I don't want to be left wondering what absurd mess you've managed to plunge headfirst-"

Harry's laughter interrupted her: "Hermione, everything will be fine!"

"So you say, mate," threw in Ron, "but Hermione and I, we _know_ what kind of luck you have…!"

Harry rolled his eyes while Hermione sniffed a little.

"I'll try and find you some up-to-date books on the situation in Prague, while you're away," she promised then. "Unless I can talk you out of this nonsense…?" she trailed off looking hopeful.

But Harry regarded her seriously: "No, I'm sorry but… I really want to do this. It's _interesting_," his eyes pleaded with her to understand.

She sighed and shook her head, but looked resigned: "Don't go looking for trouble."

"I don't go looking for trouble…" grinned Harry, and Ron finished the running joke for him: "…trouble usually finds him!"

They laughed together and then Hermione whipped out her wand, casting a swift and perfect _pack!_ and making Harry groan: "You couldn't have done it sooner and spared me grief!"


	4. Bologna

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

******Arc I – Death's Chess Set**

o

**Chapter Three  
**

_**Bologna  
**_

o

Harry breathed deeply in: the scent of the air here in Bologna was so different from London, warm and sweet and pleasant with an undertone of lazy joy, not a hint of rainy bitterness.

After arriving at the International Portkey Terminal in Venice a few hours earlier, he'd been directed to Corte Sconta Detta Arcana, Venice's own magical district.

He was sorry that he couldn't spare the time to visit the intriguing city properly and vowed to return at his leisure: what little he'd glimpsed of the graceful architecture and the peculiar canals had fascinated him.

He had other priorities on this trip, however.

He'd found out with delight that the Venetian wizards had set up centuries ago an ingenious system of connections with the principal Italian cities: a row of two-way portals, simple, easy, you just opened the door in Venice and stepped through it in Rome, or Palermo, or Florence… or, in Harry's case, Bologna.

No awful spinning and soot markings, no lurching sensation and stomach-ache, no horrid feeling of being squashed through a rubber tube. It was brilliant!

Why hadn't British wizards thought of this?

He'd have to ask Hermione when he went back. Maybe it was possible to import the idea or something.

Anyway, now he was in Bologna, where as he knew, the magical presence was minimal.

The portal itself opened on an abandoned back-alley with nothing in sight, a slight muggle-repelling charm the only protection. Bologna had been traditionally unfriendly towards wizardfolk… though there didn't seem to be a valid reason for it to be so. Perhaps it was a religious matter. Harry really wasn't clear on that kind of things.

He stepped out of the alley right under the famous Portici and breathed deeply in again, catching a scent he couldn't identify but made his stomach grumble in delight.

Right… maybe he could find some lunch before starting on his mission…

The delicious smell turned out to be freshly cut mortadella in a hot piadina, a kind of unleavened flat bread typical of Romagna, as the friendly lady who served him chattingly told him. Harry was glad of the translation charm he'd bought and fascinated by the roundness and pleasant softness of the local accent. What few words he'd exchanged in Venice had sounded different – fuller and more musical but also less welcoming.

The rotund and cheerful lady, Mrs. Guidetti, having decided that he was a 'foreign student' and as such in need of hearty meals and clear directions, had brought him a dish of tagliatelle al ragù ("Home-made, mind you!") that had Harry swearing off the Hogwarts cuisine in favour of hers, and told him quite a lot about Bologna and its many nicknames: Bologna La Dotta (The Learned), for its ancient university, Bologna La Rossa (The Red), for the warm colours of its roofs and houses, Bologna La Grassa (The Fat), because it had always been so rich in centuries past…

His curiosity spurred, he'd decided to indulge in a tour of the city, following Mrs. Guidetti's helpful indications.

He went to the Basilica of San Petronio and to the Sala Borsa, admired the famous 16th century Fountain of Neptune and got all the supposedly important Palazzi mixed up because they looked more or less the same to him; in mid-afternoon he took a stroll through the medieval market, where he lucked out and watched the owner of Beccari's (a renown delicatessen) illustrate the history of mortadella, from the third century b.C. right up until modern times, to a group of tourists who then enjoyed tastes of the various cold meats.

He was completely fascinated by the two Towers – Garisenda and Asinelli – and their story of rivalry and arrogance, which a good-humoured old man happily told him when he overheard him wonder about it; he was seriously alarmed, though, when the man warned him off climbing to the top of the Torre degli Asinelli, "lest you'll never graduate from university, young man!"

It might be just a silly superstition… but he knew better than to dismiss such things. Magic had a way to be overlooked and still affect the world seriously… he wondered what kind of training you would need to recognize a curse on a place. Maybe he'd ask Bill when he had the chance.

When the very long twilight started painting the streets in darker and darker colours, he wandered among the numerous students of Italy's oldest university and found it was easy to chat with groups of them in the cafés and bars.

Come night time, he'd seen a lot, met a few interesting people and generally had a grand time, but he realized he hadn't seen magic anywhere (unless the medieval Tower really was cursed).

Nor had he made any progress on his task.

Deciding to start over more seriously the following day, he wandered back towards the rooms he'd booked earlier.

His attention was caught however by a mixed group of adults and children gathering around someone who looked a bit like a guide. Curious, he drew closer and quickly found out that they were about to be led on a tour of the catacombs…

Impulsively, he bought a ticket.

The guide was great, making history come alive around them with her words. It was also amazing how they were crossing epochs with easiness: the ancient tunnels had had as busy a life throughout the centuries as the streets above them and the guide pointed out how the traces of time mixed and coexisted, allowing her to talk now of the ancient Romans who'd built a water system, then of the Partisans hiding there during WWII…

It was about half an hour into the tour, when they were moving through a winding tunnel and thus rather scattered in a long, irregular line, that Harry suddenly noticed something was going on.

Shadows struck him as being out of place without a reason. Odd movements caught his attention without him being able to pinpoint what was provoking them. His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong.

And then a girl disappeared.

She'd been just a step or two behind Harry, careful to keep well away from her keen parents gushing about the wonders of history and seemingly more concerned with her many bracelets than with the sightseeing.

He hadn't given her more than a glance or two, but he knew she'd been there all along: suddenly, she was not.

Uneasy and perplexed, Harry quickened his steps with the vague idea of alerting the girl's parents.

And then the girl reappeared a few steps above him, looking dazed.

Harry stopped short and watched her suspiciously.

It was really her, low-cut jeans and bored face, still twirling and adjusting her bracelets endlessly and sighing a little with a put-upon pout from time to time.

Odd, that…

Harry started walking again, hurrying to follow the group; he was no longer paying any attention to the guide, though, his mind too busy working out the mystery.

He stopped abruptly again when he caught an odd movement with the corner of his eye, off to his right this time.

There was a man there a moment ago, he was sure! A stout one with a bright lilac polo shirt and a hint of moustaches…

He walked on slowly, senses on high alert, peering suspiciously in the darkness beyond the ring of light of the guide's torch.

He took a turn and… yes! There! The man had reappeared, polo shirt a tad ruffled and looking dazed.

Very odd…

Harry slowed down even more, scrutinizing the tunnel suspiciously. If he hadn't lived among magic for years he might have dismissed it all as a trick of his tired mind. But he knew better!

He fell behind the others, eyes peeled to try and catch the next disappearance. He had no doubt it would happen again. He was fingering his wand, ready and waiting…

When icy cold hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him off, expertly muffling his instinctive scream, he barely had the time to curse at his own stupidity and think a very heartfelt: 'Oh, hell!...'


	5. Taken Aback

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

******Arc I – Death's Chess Set**

o

**Chapter Four  
**

_**Taken Aback  
**_

o

Harry struggled feebly against his captor, almost too busy berating himself for his stupidity to remember to panic.

He was dragged off down a dark lateral passage at high speed. His feet were scraping the ground without finding purchase and at every turn he was thrown around like a rag doll, bumping painfully on the brick-covered walls of the tunnels.

Then with a last, sharp turn, his captor stopped abruptly and plastered himself to a niche in the wall, yanking Harry flash to his taller, surprisingly lean but definitely stronger body.

Twisting violently in an attempt to get away, Harry turned to glare at his captor right on time to catch sight of a fanged snarl descending onto his neck.

Before he even processed his own reaction, his wand had snapped out a Repelling Hex at his assailant, that was thrown back with a screech. What the hell! The Statute of Secrecy was all very well and good, but not at the price of his life! Besides he doubted that the thing was muggle... in fact... it looked a lot like a vampire!

Casting a silent _lumos,_ Harry darted his eyes here and there, quite determined not to be caught off guard again; nothing was moving; no-one was there except for him and... the vampire.

Pale, waxy white skin, emaciated features twisted in a snarl that displayed protruding teeth... the tall humanoid could have been that Sanguini Harry had met once at Slughorn's Christmas party, except that he had lighter – blondish – hair instead of dark and didn't look bored. Rather, the creature looked livid.

He stood frozen for a very long instant, glaring at Harry who gaped back, then screeched: "Wizard!"

It was said in such a disgusted and terrified tone, like a city housewife might scream 'Mouse!', that Harry felt offended.

Scowling, he pointed his left index finger at the creature and shouted right back, just as accusatory: "Vampire!"

Figures materialised out of the darkness, all pale, all unnaturally thin, all with dimly glowing eyes and bared fangs.

"Right!" grimaced Harry, not quite so loud anymore. "A _lot_ of vampires!"

The a realization made its way through his brain and his jaw dropped: "You feed on the tourists. You... you... _you feed_ on the _tourists!_"

The unnaturally pale faces were all hostile. One dark-haired female scoffed: "Why not? They're easy prey – readily available."

A big male with an ugly nose cut her off, shouting angrily: "We don't want wizards here!"

The belligerent cry was instantly taken up by the others and Harry was bombarded by a cacophony of jeers.

Still a little stunned, he ran a nervous hand through his hair, incidentally baring his forehead to the creatures.

There was instant, unnerving silence.

Harry tensed, looking warily from one to the other, unable to figure out what was going on.

"You... are _Harry Potter!"_ whispered one young-looking male in shock.

In the unnatural silence, it reverberated like a loud cannonball.

"Ehm..." gulped Harry, suddenly nervous for a completely different reason. Certain vampire clans had supported Voldemort. Were these former followers out for revenge?

Or worse... fans?

Abruptly the dimly lit tunnel became a flurry of bewildering activities. One of the vampires disappeared off to somewhere, yelling something Harry couldn't quite catch; the others moved into small grouplets which formed and broke up with frenetic randomness, all the while chattering excitedly in Italian, too fast for the Translation Charm to pick up more than a word here and there. Since no combination of 'green mice sweating apple books in hope' could make any sense to Harry, he was left wondering and worrying, while the vampires casually ignored his existence.

Merlin, the headache he could feel coming...

Then the vampire who'd left returned and with him came an apparition that had Harry's eyes bulge out and his jaw drop to the ground.


	6. Red-faced

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

******Arc I – Death's Chess Set**

o

**Chapter Five  
**

_**Red-faced  
**_

o

The... the being... was wearing more make-up on his pale triangular face than Harry had ever seen on Ginny's in her wildest nights out, and a black lace dress, long-sleeved, tightly fitted at the waist so as to underline a slender but muscular chest above a knee-length skirt that spilled out around the legs, longer in the back and terribly shorter in the front, showing off black stockings with a very delicate spiderweb pattern that culminated in elegant sandals with the tallest spike heels Harry had ever encountered.

He... she... it... well, it looked like a _he_, and with how scantily he was covered, there was little left to doubt, but then again, it was dressed like a _she_ and moved like a _she_ and overall, Harry felt rather pathetically confused... 'he', anyway, was short, but with an unnerving sense of power in him that hung around him like an expensive perfume.

He... or she... held out a hand and Harry was momentarily confused about whether he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He could feel his cheeks heat up with his embarrassment.

Of course, the sultry voice that addressed him didn't help matters any.

"Mr. Potter... such an _unexpected_ pleasure..."

Harry wondered in almost horrified fascination how the... the vampire... could make a perfectly standard and rather commonplace greeting conjure up such lewd and lustful overtones. It was embarrassing to the extreme for the poor wizard, who had generally considered a chaste kiss to his girlfriend in public the height of daring.

The creature seemed to realize this because the light in his... or her... eyes, became positively wicked.

"I have heard a great many... interesting things about you, Mr. Potter," 'he' went on, affecting complete captivation with Harry's appearance. The wizard flinched and froze when 'she' sauntered up close to him and trailed an impossibly long, onyx black nail down his bare arm. Oh, how he wished he'd worn more than a t-shirt.

"I have _so_ wished to meet you," 'she' said with a smouldering gaze that made Harry want to run – fast. "You should come down to my rooms so we can," here the vampire bit 'his' lip and drew in a shaky breath, making 'his' eyes go wide with undisguised lust, "talk about it."

Poor Harry promptly blushed all over again, mortified at the heavy innuendo the other's body language was throwing at him.

He didn't know what he stammered out, though he sincerely hoped it was a somewhat polite refusal.

"I _insist!"_ was the immediate reply, while burningly intense eyes lingered on his lower body before flicking over his lips with naked covetousness and only slowly raising to meet his terrified and chagrined gaze.

Harry didn't think he had ever been so embarrassed before. It wasn't that he was innocent, he protested weakly inside his mind, it's just that... well... this... it...

He didn't even know how to refer to his unexpected host in his mind – and if that wasn't a sign that he should stay the hell away, he didn't know what was.

He sighed. Well, she obviously wanted to be a female, given how she dressed and acted, so it was probably polite to refer to her as such.

Her long-nailed hands clamped on his arm with forceful strength and she proceeded to drag her captive through a series of tunnels, all the while remaining pressed far too close to him for Harry's comfort. His body was torn between embarrassment and horror. He seriously considered throwing a hex at the vampire and making a run for it, but somehow he didn't get around to it.

There was a sort of morbid curiosity in him towards the whole thing. Like when you meet something so awful you can't look away, such as a car wreck. Maybe it was just his usual idiotic temptation to flirt with risk. He cursed at himself in the privacy of his mind... but stayed.

The room she finally led him in was so clichéd Harry stopped short, fighting to stammer something intelligible out beyond his choking discomfiture.

It was a spacious bedroom done in black – many blacks, actually. Shiny black, charcoal black, pale black, carbon black, smoky black, ivory black, ebony, onyx. The walls, the hardwood floor, the drawn drapes against one wall, the bed.

Everything was blackness.

The only colour in the room was the silver chains and the silver-coloured implements hanging from the wall, which Harry did his damned best to ignore. Especially the chains dangling from the ceiling above the huge bed. Which he really, really didn't want to contemplate.

Maybe he should just turn his tail and run for it.

The vampire... lady... draped herself onto the four-posters, looking like a model from the _Badboy_ number Seamus had smuggled into the dorm once and Harry had been unable to look at out of embarrassment.

The glowing paleness of her skin in all that black was eerie, accentuating the darkness rather than relieving it. She looked up at him through her lashes, sensual, sultry. Harry instantly averted his eyes, mortified.

Mistake: his gaze caught the dull sheen of more chains dangling from the four posts, set in heavy permanent rings. It was official. He was a step away from panicking.

"Ah, Mr. Potter..." she sighed deeply. "I'm so glad I caught you."

Caught, now wasn't that a nice way to describe the situation?

She stretched against the black bedspread with unnatural grace, settling her body against the pillows as if she felt utterly comfortable and regarding him hungrily through half-slitted lids.

Even through his haze of discomfiture, however, Harry could not find her in the least attractive, despite her voluptuous sensuality.

Maybe he would have been lost if she'd but made an actual effort, but as things stood, she came off as nothing but manipulative. He could see no real need or want in her eyes. This was a game to the creature.

He wondered what the stakes were.

Strangely enough, the rather cynical thought calmed him somewhat. Games, he understood. He generally couldn't play them very well, but interacting with the Press, goblin financial sharks, the Ministry, and assorted Slytherins had taught him a few things.

Not enough to win against a clearly experienced manipulator, of course... but enough to come up with a plan. Find out what she wants – if it's political, cross your fingers and hope for the best, if it's money, politely decline. And if she makes a move beyond teasing, hex and run.

Yeah, a workable plan.

He managed not to flinch when she raised her hand languidly, beckoning. He took an instinctual step back and held himself rigidly, forcing a completely fake smile: "Ah... no... thanks... I... I prefer to admire your beauty from" - as far away as I can get away with - "this wonderful perspective that really sets you off to great advantage." There, nicely complimenting, perfectly hypocritical and shrewdly advantageous to his own goal of avoiding the creature at all costs. A Slytherin aristocrat couldn't have done better.

She laughed, throatily, and it jarred on Harry's nerves.

"I was hoping taking you somewhere private would allow us to," she did the lip sucking thing again, making Harry wonder snidely if she didn't have any more tricks, or he simply didn't rate them, "have that talk."

He couldn't help wincing at the all too clear proposal and he caught the barest flick of a smug glance. Damn. She was toying with him. And he was losing any kind of contest she was having on – even those he was bound to have missed.

Irritation rose in him, fighting his embarrassment.

She lunged off the bed so suddenly he cried out and fell backwards on his butt. She was on him in an instant, pushing him on his back, long skirt bunched up over her hips – only Harry could now feel very clearly that they were a _his_ kind of hips – and smirking as 'she' trailed her deadly fingertips down his arms.

Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to stick his wand between her eyes and fire some random curse.

"Please get off me, madam," he hissed through clenched teeth.

She laughed again, like an adult amused at the antics of a silly boy, but got up with liquid grace and Harry was so relieved he nearly collapsed where he lay.

"There is no need to be so tense, amico mio," she chuckled throatily. "I have no taste for violence. A simple 'no' is all it takes."

She flicked a wink and a darting smile at him over her black lace covered shapely shoulder. From the back, the dress dipped dangerously low, baring pale, smooth skin and curving barely over her bottom.

"Why don't you just tell me what you want, then, so I can say no and go home?" Harry spat petulantly, unnerved and irritated in equal measure.

She stilled, unnaturally unmoving, bare back to Harry and fingers clenched and twisted in the sides of her skirt.

"Well, if you want to be so uncouth," she sniffed, clearly offended.

She turned to shoot him a scathing look. Harry gave her a flat one right back.

"I want a favour from you," she bit out, then seemed to recover all her self-assurance. "Although of course, should you be interested in something _more_..."

She swayed her hips, advancing on him once again, and Harry hurriedly got up, terrified by the prospect of getting in contact with the weird vampire again.

"A-alright, then, let's hear it," he said nervously. He tried hard not to flinch at the unsettling mixture of smug triumph and regretful disappointment in her eyes.

o

Two days later – days he'd spent keeping as far away from the vampire... lady? - as humanly possible, Harry stepped rigidly into a grand room, with the creature hanging on his stiff arm almost as if 'she' was draped on it instead of walking under her own power.

Somehow, the sex-crazy bloodsucker had talked him into escorting 'her' to a grand event.

The only consolation was that he'd managed to bargain an introduction to the Certani out of her. They were the family he needed to get in touch with, that had supposedly held the two Death's Rooks for centuries; so when Harry had floo-called his best friends to check in as promised, he had been able to assure them with some honesty that he was making progress. After all, he had a lead.

"I'm staying at least until Saturday, anyway" he told them. "I, ehm, have a date with..." a sex-crazed power-hungry maniac with fangs who's about as trustworthy as a barracuda "...a charming lady I've met."

"Why, Harry, you sly dog, you!" burst out Ron, laughing. "I knew Italy was the place to go!"

"Is she cute?" smirked Hermione, even as she smacked Ron upside the head.

Harry swallowed. 'Cute' was not a word that could be applied to her. Or anything in a fifty-feet area nearby her. "She's... intriguing," he tried, hoping Hermione wouldn't insist for more.

"Well, I do hope you're planning on _having some fun_," winked Ron leeringly.

Harry had a sudden image of chains and whips and leather whose details were fuzzy because he didn't really know enough about that stuff to conjure up a convincing scenario, but didn't lack evocative power for it.

In his mind, he flinched.

"Hum... sure thing, Ron..."

Now, with the 'lady' in question moulded to his side, a refrain was going over and over in his mind: _never in a billion trillion years..._

The ballroom they were admitted to was huge and sparkling, a triumph of chandeliers and mirrors almost blinding enough to conceal the redundant cherubs and flowery baroque decorations.

Harry's smile was fixed and he was staring determinedly in front, no matter what, in the vague hope that the nightmare at his side would not be real if he could not see it, like Bogeymen everywhere.

It wasn't working.

The vampire was dressed outrageously in a daring, saucy, full-length leather dress, whose back closed – if the term could be employed at all – by means of some rather shocking hardware loops and a very long lace.

The outfit made Harry go red in embarrassment whenever he accidentally caught sight of it.

She kept flirting outrageously with everyone they met, male or female, young or old, gorgeous or ugly. Harry tried desperately to find enough fairness to appreciate her equanimity. He suspected he wouldn't find anything else to approve of in her.

Besides, she was amazingly apt at whispering sultry teasing nonsense in his ears and he couldn't just avoid listening. Or prevent his face from becoming a flaming red out of chocked embarrassment.

Harry fought the urge to fiddle with the uncomfortable, luxurious robes that were making him feel completely out of place and let her drag him here and there, meeting this guy, chatting up that gel...

She looked mightily pleased with herself and was, for all appearances, having the time of her life.

To Harry, the soiree was a never-ending nightmare of handshakes and polite small talks that made him squirm with the awful sensation that his interlocutors were sharks slowly circling him with greed, and stuttered apologies for his companion's shameless behaviour, offered with the mortifying awareness that the blush he was sporting was threatening to darken his face permanently.

It was also unnerving how 'she' was openly taking advantage of his fame with certain, selected individuals. After a while, Harry realized they were the only wizards present – not that they looked the part. Their expensive, designer suits were most definitely muggle in style and making.

In fact, they made observation on his robes, hinting that while eccentricity was expected and overlooked from _her_ companions, they knew in his case it wasn't a matter of 'expressing his true self' and he should really have learned something of how they did things in Bologna before turning up like a British pureblood...

Luckily Harry was too used to being behind the time to let it bother him. It had happened at every turn since he stepped foot into the wizarding world. Same with the blatant attempt at currying favours by throwing around his name, like the vampire lady was clearly doing. It made Harry uncomfortable and angry, but he didn't know how to disentangle himself. He felt like a prized possession she was showing off and could only hope that it wouldn't last long, or have too dire consequences.

Oh Merlin, please don't let this evening end up in the papers...

All in all, it was a long, dread-filled night before the vampire lady finally – finally! - got around to introduce "...Conte Bandinello de' Certami, darling, _such_ a charming man...!"

* * *

_A/N: Please let me know if you think this chapter warrants specific warnings, ok? Luna_


	7. Through The Party

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

******Arc I – Death's Chess Set**

o

**Chapter Six  
**

_**Through the Party  
**_

o

With the round belly of a man of normal build who had too much rich food and an almost bald, pink head, the jovial man projected an air of cheerful foolishness, but Harry caught the flash of intelligence in his eyes that belied his nonsensical words and the dangerous edge to his superficially merry grin.

This was a man who used appearances with the skill and ruthlessness of a soldier handling smoke screens.

He'd better stay on guard.

The impression was reinforced when he noticed how shamelessly amused the man was at his plight. Behind the polite words, he was silently snickering at Harry's embarrassment over the leech making a spectacle of herself on his arm.

He also seemed to have a much clearer idea of what the vampire lady truly wanted with Harry, behind all her nasty teasing about getting him into her bed. Harry's eyes sharpened when he realized that hidden in his blandly spoken comments was a treasure wealth of information and he made careful mental notes of the numerous pointed mentions of facts and names he was completely unaware of, but clearly shouldn't be.

From what he could soon gather, she had promised the same things to too many parties and now that it was time to deliver, she was in a bind. Harry reflected that such a situation could offer her numerous reasons to want his help. She might be after his influence over the wizarding world to get herself out of paying up. She might be after his reputation as Slayer of the Dark Lord to intimidate her creditors. She might be after his power outright, hoping to use him as her shield or weapon, or both.

Any and all were likely – any and all were bothersome.

He wished he could guess why the Conte was letting him figure all this out. He knew he wouldn't guess however. The man was a consummate politician and the quintessential charmer, a talent that was almost scary to Harry.

He suspected that Mr. Certami was the kind of politician who could wheedle money out of the rich elite and gather consensus from the dissatisfied masses with equal ease. A pleasant, bland presence, carefully observing and pouncing instantly on every little weakness while putting everyone at ease with jovial laughters and engaging manners: velvety gloves that stroked his victims gently, all the better to conceal the sharp hidden blades.

The way he backed his 'date' in a corner, intimidated her and angered her without once giving her any hook to claim offence, and finally got rid of her very elegantly, pawning her off to an unsuspecting victim – and didn't Harry's visible relief amuse him! - was a masterwork.

All in all, Harry was completely outclassed. And knew it.

Well, this, too, was a rather familiar feeling. He had been rather outclassed in his confrontation with Voldemort too. Hadn't stopped him, had it?

While the man piloted him through the room - in an apparently random walk that Harry was guessing was aimed at reaching the buffet table, but that seemed to be manoeuvring through several small groups of people in a not very random way at all - Harry tried to keep his thoughts straight, his goal in mind, his ears perked for any sign of danger and at the same time, come up with a plan to deal with his new companion.

Talk about impossible tasks.

Not only this was not, admittedly, his cup of tea, but he was also being artfully distracted by the lively commentary the Conte was regaling him with.

The whirlwind of introductions the Vampire Lady had thrown at him had been nothing more than a blur in his poor head, but now names were being matched to faces – certain names, certain faces only – with apparent ease and the fascinating tidbits his companion offered were building up a clear and engaging picture in Harry's mind of the room and its occupants. If it wasn't for the uncomfortable sensation that it was a picture craftily arranged and tailored by the Conte for his own as-yet-unknown goals, Harry would have been profoundly grateful.

"... il Signor Aldobrandi and Doctor Davia, there in the corner." Mr. Certami's voice held just enough of a hint of complicity to keep Harry's attention engaged, mostly in spite of himself. "Their families cordially detest each other, you see, have since forever, so of course they are always, _always,_ viciously polite to one another..."

That made no sense – and Harry blurted it out, to his chagrin.

Even as he reddened and swore to himself to keep his mouth shut at all cost, however, the Conte just laughed charmingly: "...I suppose it's the civilized way... smiling chillingly and inquiring icily after each other's health instead of clubbing each other over the head..."

"Or stabbing each other in the back?" tried Harry cautiously, half-hoping for a laugh that would mark his question as a joke.

"Oh, that happens, but never in public of course. That would be an unforgivable lack of style!"

Right.

"... la Signora Baldi and la Signora Amadori... watch how they're carefully trying to avoid one another... Lady Amadori is having an affair with Mr. Baldi, you see... and of course, the scorned wife knows and is furious, but she can't do much about it since she herself is involved with a very unsuitable young man..."

That was way too much information for Harry, who was usually oblivious even to his own friends' dating ups and downs.

"...the Malatesta and the Della Francesca, legendary feud that one... of course, neither family remembers what event in history has caused the rift in the first place, but they will swear it's important, obviously, otherwise they wouldn't still going on about it, would they?..."

Human nature in a nutshell.

"...oh, dear, Davia's daughter has come and I just bet... yes, there, by the buffet, can you see the blond man? That's Antonio Dal Lino, excellent lawyer, of course, and very wealthy, but I really don't know why people continue to invite them to the same social events, it's a well-known fact that whenever they are forced together they invariably – oh, Lady Vitali!" Harry's improvised chaperon turned suddenly to call out to an acquaintance, for all appearances forgetting whatever he was chatting about.

Harry half-grumbled in his mind – he'd been curious about this latest anecdote, even if he wouldn't have admitted so for anything.

A brisk lady in a magnificent purple dress was advancing across the ballroom floor, her smile travelling in front of her.

"Conte Certami!" she said, proffering a hand with the air of someone who's waited all her life for just the chance of smiling at the portly man in front of her. It set Harry's teeth on edge at once.

"Cara signora! You look truly splendid tonight! Heliotrope suits your beauty like no other colour!"

Harry briefly lost track of the conversation in favour of pondering the mystery of a man who would know what colour 'heliotrope' was, then was jolted back to the here-and-now when he heard: "...May I introduce Mr. Harry Potter?"

Promptly going into social automatic pilot, Harry bowed stiffly over the jewelled hand the woman was holding out to him imperiously and mumbled something that might have been taken to mean he was charmed. She certainly decided to interpret it so, anyway, which was probably for the best.

"Mr. Potter, it's such a pleasure to meet you! I hear you have been doing sterling work defending us from the darkness!"

Harry met her radiant smile with a rather fixed one of his own and hoped she would be satisfied with it.

"And what do you think of this little get-together, then? Do not spare me your critics, now!" she joked coyly.

"Er... everything's lovely," tried Harry, belatedly wondering if this was, perhaps, their host – had the Vampire Lady even mentioned who was giving this party? Would he have recognized the name even if she had? He blinked, a little lost, as the woman in purple – no, heliotrope, which was apparently a shade of purple, or maybe just a fancy name for it – batted huge black eyes at him, clearly expecting more: "Er... yeah... I, err, I'm really enjoying myself," he said a little desperately, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be too obvious that he was lying through his teeth.

"I'm sure you are," she said exuberantly. "Now, I mustn't monopolize you, I know, but I simply_ must_ drag you away to talk to some of my friends..."

She took him by an unresisting arm and piloted him to the buffet table. He let her, morosely, and bowed stiffly to 'dearest Annamaria' – a short, plump woman with dark blond hair whose attention seemed fully engaged by the prawn and kiwi éclairs, despite their colour being, in Harry's opinion, rather off-putting – and to 'dearest Antonio' – who was very, very interested in milk cows, a topic about which Harry knew less than about Moonfrogs, since about the latter he had, at least, read something in the Quibbler – and to 'dearest Serena and dearest Marco' – who apparently had come all the way from Venice and politely pretended to ignore his borderline sarcastic attempt at introducing Mayan ceramics in the conversation – and to 'dearest Silvia' and 'dearest Giorgio' and 'dearest Elisa' – or was her name Erika? Not that it mattered any to him.

At last the lady who, judging by the repeated compliments she kept receiving about smooth organization and original décor, was indeed their host, was distracted enough by another 'dearest someone' coming up to her that Harry could make a desperate bid for freedom: by his cursed luck, however, he was intercepted by an elderly gentleman with thick glasses and a wheezy voice, who mistook him for his own grandson and forced him to endure a lengthy complaint about the dreadfulness of being expected to talk to 'that damn stuck-up Giorgio, and over some rather inferior wine, too'.

He was saved by the return of the lady in purple – Ventali? Venturi? - who swept him up and demanded to know whether he'd ever tasted anything as good as the pork and pineapple appetizers, though thankfully she didn't look interested in his answer, while she piloted him across the floor and towards a set of narrow double doors to the side.

"Err... Madam..." Harry started to say, an undefined sense of dread mounting in his belly as they neared their destination – a destination that was manifestly off-limits to guests. Casting a glance around, however, showed him no way of escape without being impolite. He tried offering a token resistance to her not-quite-dragging anyway.

"Not to worry, dearest, I have everything well in hand!" she said, giving him such a radiant smile that it took him a few moments to get her actual words – and by then, she'd already opened the narrow, lacquered white doors and not-quite-pushed him inside a small, dim sitting room.

Conte Certami was suddenly at her side, kissing her hand with an extravagant compliment and passing into the room as well.

She laughed in apparent delight, though Harry couldn't figure out what she might be so happy about: "There, now, miei cari, I shall make sure nobody disturbs your tête-à-tête!"

She gave them a conspiratorial wink and closed the double doors with a wide gesture, extending her arms gracefully and making her gown flow around her just so as she bent forward and then retracted pulling the doors, in a move calculated to show off a lot more cleavage – and a lot more breast – than the dress ought to have made possible, in Harry's embarrassed opinion.

And then the sounds of the party were muffled and he was alone with the Conte Certami.


End file.
